


Look Back, Move Forward

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Established Relationship, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While going through a purification ritual that will allow him to meet the High Priest of the Order of Avalon, Minister for Magic Harry Potter remembers how he got there and what he's lost along the way, all while hoping he can find it again.</p><p><b>Career Choices:</b> Harry: Defender, Minister for Magic; Draco: Religious Acolyte</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Back, Move Forward

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lordhellebore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordhellebore/gifts).



> For [Prompt # 104](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/74208.html?thread=3532768#t3532768) by lordhellebore.
> 
> Thank you to the mods for hosting the fest, and to my beta for her help. Any remaining mistakes are my own.

**Prologue**

_...Magic was not gifted to us mortals by His Grace so that we could tear ourselves apart through war! He gave us Magic because we are His chosen sons and daughters. We are His people, and we spit in the face of His gift--_

With a heavy sigh, the Minister leaned forward and switched off the Wireless.

“They’re getting louder.”

Scrimgeour looked up to see his Head Auror standing in the doorway, looking grim. He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t just linger telling me things I already know, Gawain,” he said, beckoning Robards inside. “If I’m not mistaken, I asked you here to report on Dumbledore’s trinkets, not those Merlinite lunatics.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Robards began, striding forward, “they may only be a vocal minority now, but they’re getting funding somehow and their influence is likely to spread. They’re preying on the fearful and weak-minded, and they could potentially become a serious threat to the Ministry.”

“I said that I will not hear another word about it. We have much bigger problems on our hands than some ancient religion that perhaps a handful of sad old men still practice.” Scrimgeour frowned sharply and glared at Robards. “Am I understood?”

Robards looked away, abashed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now have you finished examining the items? I’m not taking them over to Potter and his little minions without thorough vetting,” Scrimgeour said, as he rifled briefly through a folder before setting it aside.

“Our cursebreakers couldn’t find anything unusual, and nothing came up in the scans.” Robards shrugged. “Dumbledore always did have a hell of a sense of humor.”

Scrimgeour chuckled at that. “I suppose you’re right there. I just hope that now Potter will finally see reason. Once he falls in line behind the Ministry, the rest will take care of itself.” At Robards’s scoff, Scrimgeour looked up, eyes narrowed. “Something else to say?”

“You know how I feel about Potter’s involvement, sir,” replied Robards. “I don’t think his influence is as great as you seem to believe.”

“We _need_ him to put an end to that criminal once and for all, Gawain. You know the prophecy. Only the Potter boy can kill You-Know-Who.” He slid his glasses back up his nose and returned his attention to his notes. “If he does it in the name of the Ministry, so much the better.”

“As you say, sir,” Robards said, and Scrimgeour could hear the obvious frustration. “I’ll have the items ready for transport right away.”

“I’m sure Potter and his pals are just dying to see what Albus left them,” Scrimgeour said, nodding towards the door to dismiss Robards. “I know I am.”

Robards left without further comment, leaving the Minister alone to the quiet of his office once more. Scrimgeour then picked up a folder labeled _Order of Avalon_ and leafed through it briefly before opening his bottom desk drawer and placing it inside. “One thing at a time, Rufus,” he muttered to himself.

\-- -- -- --

Harry hears the hiss of steam from water poured over the massive hot rocks he knows are scattered throughout the temple. The muggy heat makes it feel as if someone has sat down on his chest, and his glasses fog up so quickly that he no longer bothers taking them off to wipe clean. He cannot see anything through the oppressive darkness anyway, except the hazy candlelight in the distance. He’s unsure how far away it is, or if it’s even real, but he’ll continue following Draco towards it. He has nowhere else to go.

Has it been hours? Has a day gone by? How long has he been moving through the caverns?

He longs for his wand, to cast a cooling charm or make his glasses impervious to the condensation, and chuckles at the realization that Draco had been right--the ability to do magic is so easily taken for granted, even for those raised without it.

“It won’t be long now, Harry.”

Though barely above a stage whisper, Draco’s voice cuts through the thick silence and jolts a defensive swing of the fist from Harry that does not connect with anything. Dread suddenly fills him. He’s supposed to be following Draco, but he cannot see, and Draco doesn’t sound close to him anymore. Harry forces himself to take a deep breath, inhaling the heady air through his nose and exhaling slowly.

He’s been comfortable too long, he realizes. When he left the field and took up the mantle of leadership that had once again been thrust upon him by a people that constantly needed saving from evil foes, whether actual or intangible, his work became legislation and press conferences and a damn-near constant stream of complete and utter bullshit. He sits at his desk, and the people come to him with their problems and requests, and he doesn’t have to act, but rather to delegate to the thousands of employees at his disposal, just waiting for their chances to prove themselves. He had that hunger once--a fire that raged in his belly and angered his blood, but it’s long since cooled.

He does not begrudge them their need for his help. He just wishes he could help _better_ , like he did when he was young, when the Big Bad was a monster he could slay, rather than the endless drudgery of bureaucracy in a system too deeply ingrained with corruption to ever really fix no matter how righteous its leader.

“Do not dawdle.” Draco issues the silky command that somehow sounds further away than before. A hot, panicky feeling that has nothing to do with the actual heat in the cavern prickles beneath Harry’s skin, but again, he forces himself to slow down, take a breath and remember that he cannot be hurt here. Draco won’t allow him to be hurt.

The irony does not escape him.

“I’m just behind you,” Harry says, sounding more certain than he feels, and begins walking towards the light once again.

\-- -- -- --

**29 June 1998**

The Ministry toilets were sterile and uniform, nothing like the Hogwarts bathrooms, which was where Harry usually saw Malfoy in his low moments, but he was struck by the fact that of all the bathrooms on this level of the Ministry, he managed to find the one where Malfoy was attempting to compose himself before his trial. He was not spoiling for a fight with his former schoolboy nemesis, if that was what the Auror guards at the door were thinking when they gave him a knowing nod and a wink, as he walked through the doors. Really, he just needed the loo.

Malfoy sagged at the sink, barely able to keep upright under the weight of his despair. His hair hung limply down around his face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and watery from the attempt to hold himself together. Harry knew that look all too well, had seen it too many times before, and so instead of turning around and just walking away, he moved closer. He was transfixed, as he so often had been, by the object of his erstwhile obsession.

He could admit now, with a bit of distance, that he’d been obsessed by Malfoy. He also didn’t think it was so wrong--after all, hadn’t he turned out to be right that Malfoy was up to something, and something major at that?

Malfoy looked up into the mirror and finally saw Harry standing there, intruding once more on his private desperation, but instead of the fury that Harry expected, Malfoy seemed to crumple in on himself. “Of course,” he said, his voice a resigned whisper. “Of course it’s you.”

“It’s me,” Harry echoed and took another tentative step forward.

“Isn’t it always?” Malfoy asked, on a sigh. He then visibly composed himself, straightening his spine, swiping at his eyes and disappearing behind a mask of upper-class indifference, and Harry was struck with the sudden thought that he was looking at Malfoy now, when before he watched _Draco_.

He didn’t know Draco, not really. He had spent seven years getting to know Malfoy, with his casual arrogance, wilful racism and entitled snobbery. He wondered how many times a day Draco’s mask slipped, and he had to stitch together Malfoy--had to weave in the cunning self-preservation that had got him into so much trouble and create the person he was to the outside world. He imagined it was quite like when Snape healed Malfoy in Myrtle’s bathroom after Harry cut him to pieces, knitting his skin back together and smoothing out the cracks until he was whole once more.

He wondered who Draco had been all along, if perhaps Draco was the scared, frustrated boy who cried to ghosts, lowered his wand and simply couldn’t kill no matter how hard he’d tried. He knew that Draco had saved him that night in Malfoy Manor, just as he had saved Draco from the flames. He wondered if _Malfoy_ would have done the same.

He wondered why he was feeling so introspective at all. He wasn’t even sure why he had come to the Ministry in the first place, as he didn’t particularly want to be involved. He had done his part--he had vanquished the evil, and he was ready to move on with his life. But he supposed there had just always been something about Malfoy.

“I never apologized, did I?” Harry then asked, the non sequitur making him frown, as Malfoy could not hear or see his thoughts.

“For what?” Malfoy returned. His bland expression had the hint of wariness and suspicion, and Harry infinitely preferred it to nothing. Riling Malfoy up had never failed to be interesting or fun in the past, and even though now was not the time for levity, Harry couldn’t help but want to push Malfoy. He would have preferred anything including Malfoy’s usual blind hatred to the disturbing lack of emotion.

“For slicing you open.” Harry cocked his head slightly and a small smile pulled at his lips. He didn’t feel embarrassed or ashamed, either by his crass way of putting it or by the event itself. It happened, and he was sorry, certainly, but it had been an accident, and at the time, Malfoy had been trying to _Crucio_ him. It was just odd, he supposed, finally admitting it aloud--especially after so much worse had happened between them since.

Malfoy’s hand flinched up to his chest quickly, so quickly Harry almost didn’t notice, but he smoothed down his robes to play it off. He regarded Harry carefully, but Harry held his own. “No,” Malfoy then said, and the cracks in his armor became visible again, if only just barely, “you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry repeated, keeping hold of Malfoy’s steel gaze. “But I am sorry, Malfoy. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Unexpectedly, Malfoy turned to the mirror again, hung his head and exhaled, “I am too.”

Emboldened, Harry took another step forward, another, a third, until he was right behind Malfoy, behind Draco, with his hands hovering at Draco’s hips. He could feel Draco trembling minutely, struggling for that careful, placid hold over himself, but it was a battle he rapidly began to lose as the minutes ticked by toward his near-certain imprisonment. He suddenly wanted to pull Draco back into an embrace, which he knew was a very odd want, and yet…

“Are you scared?” he asked, even though of course he knew the answer. Were their positions reversed, Harry would have been scared too.

Draco turned around and didn’t seem spooked by Harry’s proximity, which encouraged Harry to let his hands fall where they wanted to go, grazing at Draco’s hips. The fabric of his robes was clearly expensive, and it felt good against Harry’s fingertips, soft and warmed by Draco’s body, inviting.

“Answer me,” Harry said, when Draco remained quiet, his eyes fixed on Harry’s hands and what they were doing, thumbs rubbing little comforting circles into Draco’s hipbones.

Draco inhaled shakily, and Harry looked up into his eyes, questioning. “I’m not sure of which I’m more afraid: going to Azkaban or no punishment,” Draco admitted.

“So it’s all or nothing, you think?”

“Either I’m a Death Eater or I’m not, Potter. There isn’t a middle ground,” replied Draco. His breath hitched in his throat, as Harry closed their distance further and looked up into his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered--and he didn’t know what was causing his odd behavior. All he knew was the inexplicable urge to be close to Draco; it would have been nothing at all to tilt his head up just that much further and capture Draco’s lips with his own. Harry was drawn, as a moth to a flame, wanting something that he hadn’t wanted in a long time, hadn’t even had time to think about with everything that had happened over the last two years. It didn’t matter that it was Draco Malfoy who had brought this sudden urge out of him. He just suddenly and decidedly _wanted_ , and clearly Draco _needed_. Harry smiled. When had he ever fallen back in the face of someone else’s needs? He had long since come to terms with his supposed saving people thing. Perhaps that was all this was--Draco needed some saving, and Harry was present and ready to save.

But then the bathroom door opened with such force that it slammed against the wall, admitting the guards and shattering whatever spell, whatever odd thing was between he and Draco, because when they sprang apart and Harry looked up, he found himself looking at Malfoy once more.

“All right, you little bastard, you’ve had more than enough time,” said the gruff, dark-haired Auror. Savage, Harry thought his name was, which was appropriate, and Savage yanked Malfoy by the lapels of his stupidly-expensive robes towards the door.

Malfoy didn’t look back once, and Harry took a moment to compose himself before he, too, left the bathroom and followed the guards to the Wizengamot chambers. He no longer needed the loo, funnily enough.

He remembered his first time before the Wizengamot, with the glare of the artificial lights and the overwhelming sense of his own smallness, as the powerful elders of the wizarding community looked down upon him from their high-backed chairs in the gallery above. He could imagine that Malfoy felt exactly the same way, or rather, perhaps worse because Malfoy had actually done something wrong. The white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair, the bead of sweat rolling down his neck as he struggled to keep his composure without the comforting presence of his mother, his heart hammering in his chest--Harry was acutely aware of even the slightest twitch of Malfoy’s muscles under his skin, and it was all those things, at once nothing and everything, that caused him to rise from his chair and stride briskly through the room to stand at Malfoy’s side.

“Harry Potter?” asked the Chief Warlock, a wisp of an old man who looked as if a slight breeze could knock him over. “What is the meaning of this intrusion upon the proceedings?”

“I wish to speak as witness,” Harry said, his voice full and clear. He drew himself to his height, admittedly not the most impressive, but he knew that his posture conveyed his confidence. Then, a memory stirred again--himself at fifteen, sitting in the chair and wishing that Dumbledore would turn and look at him, just the once, just an acknowledgement that everything was going to be fine, and so Harry turned and looked at Malfoy. Malfoy’s eyes were wide and confused, pleading and terrified, and Harry felt that same strange want to protect this stupid boy whom he barely knew and whom he’d always hated for no reason other than that Malfoy hated him first--

\--but Malfoy didn’t hate him first. Malfoy hated Muggle-borns and the Weasleys and the poor and the disenfranchised, but he didn’t hate Harry. He wanted to be Harry’s friend. He held out his hand first, and it was Harry who refused, Harry who hated.

Harry smiled, and of its own accord, his hand reached for Malfoy’s shoulder and squeezed gently. It’s going to be all right, he thought, and he wondered if Draco could feel it somehow.

“Mr. Potter,” the Chief began, “I hardly think it appropriate for you to--”

“--Harry is well within his rights to speak on the Malfoy boy’s behalf,” interrupted Kingsley. “Or have we entirely dispensed with proper judicial proceedings?”

The accusation lingered in the air, and Harry realized that he hadn’t let go of Malfoy’s shoulder. His fingers grasped at the material of Malfoy’s robes again; Harry anchored himself and waited for the Wizengamot to come to its senses and let him speak as he was meant to speak. It was suddenly imperative that he was given his chance to plead for Draco Malfoy.

The mumbling throughout the chamber was indiscernible, but obviously hostile, and Harry wondered if perhaps it was a lost cause from the beginning. Perhaps Malfoy was foolish to think he’d potentially get no punishment. The people in this room, whether up there actively passing judgment or in the visitor’s gallery, had already condemned Malfoy, facts or not. He was guilty.

Harry was not so blinded by the odd urge that he could not admit Malfoy’s guilt. Malfoy was thrice-guilty of attempted murder, he was guilty of conspiracy and aiding and abetting a terrorist, but more than anything, he was guilty of being a goddamned fool.

“Go ahead, Harry.”

The permission to speak pulled him from his thoughts, and he frowned gently. Suddenly, he was not sure what to say.

“Please,” whispered Draco, and Harry nearly melted with relief. He took a deep, resolute breath and began to tell their story. He had never really been good with words, but he could help here. He could do right by Draco this time.

\-- -- -- --

The candles have to be real because they are slowly but surely getting closer. Harry can see the flickering lights more clearly, and the air is starting to feel less steamy. They must be nearly there. Fuck, how long has it been?

“Draco?” Harry suddenly calls. “Are you still there, Draco?”

He hears no answer, though he doesn’t suppose he actually expected one. Draco has made it perfectly clear that this is Harry’s journey and that he is only along as a guide for when Harry absolutely needs it. He’ll not interfere unless Harry totally loses his way.

Anger blooms in his chest, fierce and righteous. He’s so tired of the journey. He’s tired of the grand gesture. He’s tired of constantly moving towards some great, tragic end.

“Draco!” he shouts. “Don’t leave me here alone!” His words echo off the cavern walls, surrounding him and forcing him to a halt until the shout slowly dies into heavy silence again. Harry resists the urge to kick the wall, like a petulant teenager denied access to a coveted new broom. He’s doing this, as he always does, because it’s his duty, his destiny, and yes, his _need_ to make things right, to help those who need him. But it feels hollow somehow--likely, he thinks, because his cause this time is not also his own. He doesn’t believe, he won’t believe, but he’ll do what is necessary to ensure that his people are free.

“You’re not alone, Harry. You are never alone.” Draco’s voice sounds suddenly like it’s just over his shoulder, and Harry turns wildly, startled, but of course, Draco isn’t actually there.

Harry forces himself to breathe calmly again. He knows exactly to what Draco is referring, or rather to whom, and though it doesn’t calm him the way it calms the believers, it at least reminds him that he isn’t really alone, despite the emptiness around him. Rather like that night in the woods so long ago, he has his loved ones at his side, companions against fear and darkness. “Draco,” Harry begins again, calmly, “will you please come back? I know I’m not alone, but I would rather you were with me. I need--”

He cuts himself off, suddenly when he feels a hand at the small of his back. It eases its way up his back and travels through the shorter hair at the back of his neck, sending a chill down his spine, despite the heat. It’s such a familiar gesture, such a reminder of what he had and what he lost. The welcome presence disappears just as quickly as it came, and Harry closes his eyes and sighs his disappointment. Nothing is ever easy.

“This is what makes you a hero, Harry,” Draco says, a disembodied voice in the distance once more.

Harry isn’t sure he’s been a hero in a very long time. He sets off again, heading for the candlelight, determined. He can do this--he just cannot listen to his doubts.

\-- -- -- --

**5 January 2001**

The warming charms in the room needed a refresher, but Harry knew it was entirely by design. It was just another cheap Auror trick, one of many misguided policies meant to undermine justice that Harry was determined would be erased from the books just as soon as the Wizengamot saw reason and passed the legislation that had been sitting on their docket for nearly forty weeks. Hermione promised that it couldn’t be much longer, but as the most junior member of the cabal, she didn’t have much power to move things forward once they were introduced. Still, Harry knew she would make it happen--she was still Hermione Granger, brightest witch of their age and ruthlessly committed to ensuring justice wherever it had fallen by the wayside.

He tapped his quill against the license papers, as he waited. The guards were due with Malfoy nearly an hour ago, but of course, what were a few extra hours after two and a half years? Harry thought about perhaps sending yet another set of demand letters to Head Auror Robards, DMLE Head Augustus Wellington and the Minister for Magic himself. If he couldn’t annoy them in person, he could certainly annoy them with paperwork. Again.

Before he had finished the salutation, though, the familiar shape of Ron’s Patronus materialized before him and opened its mouth to deliver its message.

_Mum Malfoy’s laying an egg in the Atrium. Thought you might want to know and do what you do best. Also, don’t forget roast beef at mum’s tonight. Fair warning, she invited that Collins bloke from the Quidditch shop in Diagon, but she’s also making treacle tart. Choose your destiny._

Harry smiled to himself, as he hastily threw the license contract back into a folder and made a completely unprofessional beeline for the door. While Molly had taken the amicable break up of Harry and Ginny less than favorably, she had certainly taken to fixing him up with every fit, young, gay wizard she happened to run across with a fervor bordering on obsessive. It didn’t matter to her that Harry only had eyes for one person--granted, a person he hadn’t seen in nine-hundred twelve days, seven hours and forty-two minutes and whom was being kept from him, likely due to the massive amount of red tape involved with the release of a prisoner from Azkaban.

He could almost feel his wild magic crackling around his body and forced himself to breathe deeply and settle it back while he rode the lifts up to the Ministry Atrium. It wouldn’t do to have another episode like the Magnussen Incident, not on a day as important as this one. Besides, if Narcissa Malfoy was unable to keep it together, it would certainly fall to Harry to be the calm professional Defender he was supposed to have been.

The doors opened, and he strode out with purpose, heading straight for the commotion near the public entranceway. Photographers and journalists jostled one another to get the best angle, but as soon as one of them noticed Harry’s arrival on the floor, the media circus turned upon him. Harry laughed at the sight of them--the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

“No comment,” he repeated to questions thrown at him from all directions, as he barreled through them, single-mindedly bent on getting to Narcissa Malfoy before she inadvertently landed Malfoy back in prison on a technicality.

“Mr. Potter!” she called, “these ruffians are refusing to allow me to see my son!”

Harry frowned, though the news was not particularly surprising. He’d encountered it almost every time a convicted Death Eater or sympathizer had been released from Azkaban. All of them had been over eighteen when they were sentenced, which classified them as adults, but most of them had been only a year or two out of Hogwarts and were still very much children who needed their parents.

“Mr. Potter, with all due respect,” said the administrative clerk, who Harry knew really was just doing her job, “Mrs. Malfoy has not been cleared by the Auror Department yet, which I’ve tried to tell her, but she refuses--”

“--that’s quite enough,” Harry said, only feeling slightly bad about using his The Boy Who Lived voice of authority. It was necessary, he knew. “Narcissa, if you’ll come with me, we’ll head down to Level Two together. Rebecca, you can lay the blame on me.” He then held out his arm for Narcissa to take, which she did daintily, and headed back to the lifts to return to the DMLE where he sincerely hoped the guards had finally arrived with Malfoy, or he was going to be extremely put out.

“Thank you, Mr. Potter,” Narcissa said, tone clipped and reserved, as they rode down together. “One can always count on your ability to make a scene.”

On anyone else, Harry might have thought it was mocking, but he’d come to know Narcissa quite well in the last two and a half years, and all he heard was the genuine relief that she was finally going to take her son home where he knew she felt he belonged. “You’re welcome,” he replied, “but we’re not out of the woods just yet. I’ve been waiting nearly an hour for them to arrive, and it hasn’t happened yet.” She gripped his arm hard as the doors opened to admit them to Level Two and turned haunted eyes on him, but Harry just smiled as reassuringly as he could. “Today is the day, Narcissa, I promise. He’ll get out, even if I have to go to that godforsaken island and haul him out myself.”

“In some ways,” she replied quietly, “it almost feels like it was just yesterday that he was taken away from me.”

Harry understood the feeling entirely. “Come on,” he then said, shaking off the wistfulness that threatened to derail him, “let’s go make a scene.”

Together, they returned to the room Harry had been unceremoniously ushered into when he’d arrived earlier, and while Narcissa took a seat in one of the rather uncomfortable metal chairs, Harry spread the probation contract out on the table. He then opened the door wide and used a _Sonorus_ to call out into the hall, “If at any point the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would like to follow proper procedure for the release of young offenders, we’ll just be in here waiting!”

“I rather suppose you weren’t making a joke about the scene,” Narcissa said, once Harry had sat down again. He merely gave her a cheeky grin, feeling rather proud of himself. It might not have been one of his better quips, but it was definitely loud.

Two minutes later, an Auror Harry didn’t recognize came into the room and roughly shut the door behind himself. Harry was on his feet immediately, ready to neutralize the threat, if need be. “Unbunch your knickers, Potter,” the Auror said. “There was a delay, but the associate warden sent word that they’d be here shortly.”

Harry narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure which part I’d like to ask about first--what sort of a delay, and why is the ‘associate warden’ transferring parolees?”

“As much as you think you run the Ministry, Potter, I’m afraid that information is classified way beyond your clearance level,” the Auror replied, a nasty smile coming to his lips.

Harry made to reply, but then the door opened again to admit Moira Fellowes, second associate warden of Azkaban and then--

His hair was long, with fringe falling into his eyes, but clean and well-kept, as if he’d perhaps had a visit to the barber before he’d come home. It was the only part of him that looked healthy, though. He was thin and, if possible, paler than he’d been before. His skin looked sallow, with dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked as if he’d been crying quite recently.

In spite of it all, Malfoy looked beautiful.

“Draco, oh God, Draco!” Narcissa cried, rising immediately from her seat and rushing over to him. She shoved past the warden and threw her arms around his painfully-thin body. He tried to lift his arms to hug her in return, but his hands were manacled together in front of himself.

“Mother,” he all but sighed, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone sound so relieved in his life. “Mother, it’s you.”

“It’s me, Draco, it’s me. You’re here, I cannot believe you’re here,” she babbled. “Take these handcuffs off of him, right now! Please, take them off of him.” 

“Yes,” Harry added, eyes never leaving Malfoy, “remove the manacles. Mr. Malfoy’s license begins now.”

Malfoy looked up, startled. His expression then quickly narrowed into quiet suspicion, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh. It was as if no time had passed at all, how easily the dynamic between them fell perfectly back into place. “You’re here?” Malfoy then asked, barely noticing that the Auror waved his wand and released the bonds that held Malfoy’s hands together.

“I’m here,” Harry replied. He took a step closer. “I’m here, well, that is I’m here--”

“--Mr. Potter is your Defender, Draco,” Narcissa interrupted. “He’s been working your case, and he’s going to make certain that your probation period runs smoothly.” Her hands shook as they smoothed down the front of Malfoy’s robes.

“You’re my Defender?” Malfoy asked.

“What a hero he is,” said the Auror sarcastically.

“Do be quiet, Auror Reinholdt,” said Fellowes, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Now, Mr. Potter, I’ve reviewed the license contract with the parolee, and everything seems to be in order. Shall we sign and be on our way?”

“His name is Draco.”

“I beg your pardon?” Fellowes asked, as she sat down at the table to sign the contract.

“I said,” Harry repeated, “that his name is Draco. Not ‘parolee’. He’s a person, and he has a name. Use it.”

Fellowes raised an eyebrow, but merely smiled an unctuous, disgusting smile that rather reminded Harry of Umbridge. “Of course, of course, Draco,” she replied, before casting an unreadable look at Malfoy. She signed off on the contract without further discussion and then handed the quill to Auror Reinholdt, who added his signature on the appropriate line. Reinholdt held the quill out to Malfoy who took it with shaking fingers.

“Go ahead, Draco, sweetheart, sign,” said Narcissa, her voice strangled a bit with emotion.

Malfoy signed his name on the line. “You know it’s not really over, right, Mother?” he said quietly. “I’m not free--I’m just out.”

“But you’re half-way there, darling, and, and, well, you’re here! You’re here with me where you belong. Everything is going to be all right now!” Narcissa tugged Malfoy forward into a hug once more, and Malfoy dropped the quill to wrap his arms tightly around her in return.

“She’s right,” Harry said, reluctant as he was to interrupt their moment. “I’ll make sure of it. It’s going to be okay now.”

Malfoy looked up at him, eyes intense over Narcissa’s head. Something raged in Harry to see it--not anger or the fire he always felt when faced with injustices, but that same odd want to protect Malfoy and perhaps, he realized, make Malfoy his.

“You’ll make sure of it,” Malfoy echoed, in a low voice.

“I will,” Harry assured him, and he meant it. He stepped forward and, when Narcissa moved away, Malfoy stepped forward as well, until they were close. Harry didn’t care that they had an audience. He leaned his face up and captured Malfoy’s lips with his own, finally satisfying the need he’d had for over two years. Malfoy stiffened briefly and then melted into the kiss, sagging against Harry until Harry was forced to wrap his arms around Malfoy to hold him upright.

It wasn’t what Harry expected--but everything he wanted.

After a long moment, he pulled back and looked Malfoy straight in the eye. “I _will_.”

\-- -- -- --

It’s become pitch dark, and he cannot see anything, whether ahead or behind. The candles are gone, and he’s alone again. He must have gotten turned around somehow or found his way into one of the cavern’s offshoots.

Harry closes his eyes, embracing the darkness, destroying the rising tide of fear and anger. He can ignore it, he can be stronger. He’s been through this before, after all, countless times before. He’s faced down the shadows and come out clean on the other side. He can do it again. He’s been lost so many times before, but he will be found, or rather he will find his way.

A wry smile twists his lips because he realizes what Draco wants him to understand. The absolutely Slytherin gall of it makes him laugh.

He's never gotten anywhere completely on his own, he knows. He’s had his friends and loved ones with him, pushing him forward, helping him get where he needed to go, do what he needed to do. Ever since he came into his magic, he had someone by his side to guide him--Hagrid, Dumbledore, Snape, Hermione and Ron, the Weasleys, Lupin, Sirius, Tonks, professors, friends, Dumbledore’s Army, the Order of the Phoenix, one by one all of them giving him something that he needed more than he ever knew. They were all there for him when he needed them, and even when he lost them, their guidance remained.

He needs a guide now. Though the journey is Harry’s own, he cannot expect to succeed without help.

“Draco,” he calls quietly, confidently. “Draco, I’m lost.”

“Keep going,” Draco calls back.

“Draco, please take me there,” Harry answers. He raises his hands before himself, a supplicatory gesture. He keeps his eyes closed and just breathes. He can hear nothing except the distant hiss of steam and the fading echo of his request.

After a long moment, softly at first, then with more definition, he hears footsteps. Someone is coming up behind him. Harry inhales shakily, but smiles more genuinely. He keeps his eyes closed and lowers his hands to his sides, standing still and quiet, waiting.

He recognizes the hand that takes his, the smooth slender fingers that twine with his own, the thumb that slides along his own softly. It’s been so long, too long since they have touched one another, and for the barest moment, they stand together, not moving. Harry squeezes Draco’s hand gently, and Draco returns the pressure with a squeeze of his own. Though Harry’s eyes are closed, he imagines that he can see the smile on Draco’s face.

He misses Draco something fierce, he realizes. Though it fell apart between them, he wonders if perhaps there’s at least a chance he can get it back. He wonders if he has the right to ask for a chance to earn it. He wonders if he really wants it.

“Come with me,” Draco then says and tugs Harry gently forward.

Harry keeps his eyes closed and follows.

\-- -- -- --

**3 May 2001**

Harry slid his fingers into Malfoy’s soft, blond hair and tightened ever so, as Malfoy languorously circled his tongue around the head of Harry’s hardening cock. “I think I could get used to waking up like this every morning,” Harry said, through clenched teeth. And as Malfoy slowly sucked down on Harry’s cock and swallowed, he bit down on his lower lip against a gasp.

Malfoy flicked his gaze up to Harry’s face and smiled around his mouthful of cock. His lips were stretched wide, and a bit of drool dribbled from his lips, but he still looked beautiful. His pupils were blown wide with lust, but were otherwise clear and full of an unvoiced emotion that Harry knew all too well, though he, too, had yet to actually say the words. Words had never really been the way they communicated best--although, Harry sometimes wondered if miscommunication had been most of their issue when they were still children at school, fighting over trivial things like Quidditch and House points.

It was also too soon, Harry knew, to say how he felt about Malfoy. They were still calling each other by their surnames, for fuck’s sake, and Malfoy only spent four out of every seven days a week overnight at Harry’s flat. Malfoy had only been to the Burrow fifteen times, and Harry had never slept over at Malfoy Manor due to the memories it evoked in him. Four months wasn’t long enough. Even the two and a half years of waiting for Malfoy to be released wasn’t long enough to temper seven years’ worth of complicated history.

Still, it was coming, Harry knew. It would not be long before they could make things official between them.

Harry tugged on Malfoy’s hair again, harder, until Malfoy pulled off and looked up at him, a slightly annoyed look on his face. Harry smiled. “Don’t look so put out,” he said, before wrapping his hands around Malfoy’s biceps and pulling him up to press a kiss to his lips.

Malfoy cozied up for barely a moment before he made a noise in the back of his throat and pushed back. “What did I say about kissing first thing in the morning?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Oh, sod the teeth cleaning charms,” Harry replied, laughing as he reached for Malfoy again. “I like the way you taste--especially after you’ve had my cock in your mouth.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes, even as a smile played at his lips. “Don’t be crass,” he admonished. Malfoy still allowed himself to be pulled forward. He easily straddled Harry’s legs, before leaning in and allowing himself to be kissed as well. Harry wrapped his arms around Malfoy’s bare back and pressed their chests together, basking in the early morning, sleep-warmed heat of him, as Malfoy slowly opened up to him. Their tongues swirled together, liquid and teasing, as Harry traced his fingers slowly up and down Malfoy’s back.

“I think,” Malfoy said, between kisses, “I would like it very much if you would get inside me.”

Harry laughed, a husky chuckle low in his throat, before he bucked his hips and playfully unseated Malfoy from his perch on Harry’s lap. “Don’t be crass,” he teased, affecting Malfoy’s posh drawl. It was a terrible impression and drew an unamused groan from Malfoy, which Harry swallowed by kissing him fiercely again. He dipped his fingers below the waistband of Malfoy’s silken sleep pants and squeezed Malfoy’s slim, firm arse.

It still amazed Harry that he could touch Malfoy like this whenever he wanted--that he could run his fingers along the knobs of Malfoy’s spine or trace Malfoy’s jawline with his lips and tongue. He sometimes woke up in the morning and couldn’t believe that his life had turned out the way it had. For someone who hadn’t necessarily expected to make it out of Hogwarts alive, Harry had managed to create an entirely different life for himself, and it was a life that made him unbelievably, almost terrifyingly happy.

“Come on, Potter, fuck me,” Malfoy hissed, as Harry teased his arsehole with his roving fingers.

“Such language,” Harry replied, leaning in and whispering it against Malfoy’s ear. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I kiss you with that mouth.” Malfoy rose up into a crouch and tugged his pants down just enough so that his cock sprang free from the confines and his hole was accessible. Harry immediately reached between them and began a leisurely, firm stroke. He was hard and leaking, which meant that he wouldn’t last too long once Harry was inside him, but that was just fine by Harry. He enjoyed Malfoy’s body however he could get it--fast and dirty or slow and intimate. “Fuck, Potter, please,” Malfoy whined, high and tight. 

Harry shoved Malfoy back then and made quick work of pulling the silk pants entirely off. He shucked his own shorts as well and then crawled over the length of Malfoy, pressing their cocks together and taking hold. “I love it when you come undone like this,” he said, the words ragged. A groan tore itself from his throat and his eyes fell closed, as he began to fuck his hips, thrusting his slickened cock against Malfoy’s.

“Harder!” Malfoy begged, pushing his hips upward on Harry’s downstrokes. “Fuck, Harry, please!”

Harry’s eyes shot open and he stilled for a bare moment, before coming hard with a loud moan. “Oh fucking Merlin, Draco!” He thrust against Malfoy weakly, the last of his release spurting out in a few weak jets that landed on Malfoy’s stomach. He then pressed his face to Malfoy’s chest, trying to catch his breath until his heart stopped racing in his chest. “Draco, that was--”

“Get off me, Potter,” Malfoy then said, his voice ice-cold and unforgiving.

Harry pushed himself up until he was looking down at Malfoy, with hands pressed on either side of Malfoy’s shoulders. “Back to Potter already? What did I--oh, you didn’t come?” Malfoy’s cock had softened some, but he clearly still needed attention. Harry smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, Draco, it’s just you were so brilliant.” He reached down between them again to begin stroking Malfoy once more, but Malfoy slapped his hand away. “Draco?” he asked, confused.

“I said get off of me, Potter, you inconsiderate oaf,” Malfoy said again, shoving out at Harry until Harry was forced to roll back and let Malfoy out from underneath him.

“Dra--Malfoy, I’m sorry! What did I do wrong? Did I hurt you?” Harry sat back against the headboard and tugged the sheet over his legs, as he watched Malfoy throw himself back into his pants and then get off the bed to begin putting his other clothing back on, and tried to stem the tide of annoyance that was rising within him. They had little fights like this all the time, and it was almost always due to some perceived slight on Malfoy’s end that Harry usually had success alleviating. He’d learned to negotiate in his years as a Defender, and Malfoy had seemed to learn some sense of being reasonable while in prison. “Malfoy, talk to me,” Harry said, affecting his most serious tone.

“You did it again, Potter,” Malfoy then said, exasperated. He flung his arms wide, indicating the whole room. “You said it again, while we were having sex. You promised me that you wouldn’t do it anymore, but you did. Again. Like you always fucking do.”

“Said what?” Harry asked, as he got up and reached for the pajama bottoms he’d discarded sometime in the middle of the night. “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“You took His name in vain while we were having sex, Potter,” Draco ground out. He then turned away, looking for the rest of his belongings. “You obviously don’t respect me, and you don’t respect my beliefs.”

Floored, Harry stopped halfway to pulling on a tee-shirt. It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard it before, of course, but he couldn’t believe that Malfoy was seriously giving him grief about something that Harry had little to no control over when they were in the throes of pleasure.

“You had better be taking the piss because for fuck’s sake, Draco, if you’re really that fucking upset about me cursing in bed, you’ve completely lost your damn mind!” Harry seethed, as he stepped forward and gripped Malfoy by the shoulders, forcing him to turn around and face him.

“How hard is it to control yourself, you insensitive pillock? How hard is it to do this one thing for me?” Malfoy asked, struggling only briefly in Harry’s grip, before sighing, all the fight leaving him. He leaned in and pressed his forehead to Harry’s own. “I know I’m being dramatic, but Harry, please, it’s just such a little thing. Why can’t you remember? Why can’t you just do this one thing for me?”

Harry sighed and then tilted his head up to press a kiss to Malfoy’s forehead. “I think this time it was because you called me Harry,” he murmured against the smooth skin. He pulled back with a smile. “You know you’ve never done that before?”

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “It slipped out,” he said, obviously struggling against a smile.

“So did mine,” Harry replied.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes again and pulled back a little, but Harry didn’t let him out of the grip. “Don’t be glib about this, Potter. It’s important to me, and even though it’s obviously not important to you, I think you should--”

“--if it’s important to you,” Harry interrupted, “it’s important to me, all right? I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful. I promise. I will try much, much harder to stop taking Merlin’s name in vain.”

Malfoy eyed him warily, but then slowly nodded and leaned in to be kissed again. “Good,” he said, before he pressed his lips to Harry’s and kissed him, languid and sweet once more.

Being with Malfoy, Harry decided, was rather like spending time in a cage with a venomous snake. He could play nice, but he was helpless whenever the snake struck out. And yet, as much as Harry didn’t want to get bitten, he was at least happy for the chance to be around. The alternative was much worse, after all. Malfoy could have served every single day of his five-year sentence, and who knew what changes Malfoy would have undergone during an extended stay?

Malfoy pulled back and glanced over Harry’s shoulder at the large clock on the wall. “It’s nearing eight. Do you want to come with me to the service? We’ll have plenty of time before the meeting with my license officer.”

He sounded so hopeful that Harry found himself saying yes before he even had a chance to remember that he never went to Merlinite services because he found them as odd and off-putting now as he had during the war years when their broadcast sermons frequently took down Lee Jordan’s pirate program and even the infiltrated Ministry’s radio assurances that everything was fine and Harry Potter, not Voldemort, was the real threat. It wasn’t that he was against the Order of Avalon in principle, nor did he think that what they believed was any less plausible than any other religious body’s dogma, but then again, he supposed that that was just exactly it: to Harry, the idea of gods having any control of his daily life was ridiculous, and he didn’t understand how reasonable people could believe it either.

But he loved Malfoy, even though it was too early to say and he had no idea if Malfoy felt the same way or if, as he sometimes secretly thought about late at night when Malfoy wasn’t around, Malfoy was just there out of some misplaced sense of gratitude for the work Harry did to secure his release. He loved Malfoy, and it wouldn’t kill him to go and sit through a Merlinite service or two if it meant making Malfoy happy.

\-- -- -- --

Draco stops abruptly, and Harry nearly runs into him from following so closely behind with his eyes closed. “Listen,” he says quietly.

Harry inhales softly, then holds his breath, listening carefully. Without sight, his other senses become sharper, more acute. He can feel each individual drop of moisture that falls on his skin from the steamy air. He can smell a fragrant incense burning somewhere in the distance, and yes, he can hear--

_Ab aeterno, ad infinitum, coram Merlin_

A chorus of voices, rich and melodious, chant the phrase over and over again. Harry takes a step forward, arms outstretched to avoid running into anything, including Draco. It’s beautiful, almost ethereal somehow, even though he knows it’s nothing more than the acolytes and priests going about their daily prayers. He wonders how long they’ve been at it, if they take breaks, when they’re allowed to say something else. It’s sacred to them, though, and he dares not say anything against it aloud--not when he is at the mercy of the Order.

“I can hear them praying,” Harry says. “Is that where we’re heading?

“Yes,” Draco replies, as he takes Harry’s hand again, “and beyond. You know where we are going.”

“Will I have to pray too?” he asks, but Draco doesn’t answer, and they begin to move along the pathway once more together. Harry begins to say the words in his head, committing them to memory just in case. _Ab aeterno, ad infinitum, coram Merlin_ A smile comes to his lips, as he considers that he probably should have brushed up on his Latin like Hermione had suggested. He gets the general meaning though and has to admit, it has a rather nice sound to it, but perhaps it’s just the way that they sing. He’s not much of a singer, but if he has to, he supposes he can hold the melody well enough.

Draco has a terrible voice, he knows. He remembers sitting next to Draco at the services, trying not to cringe as Draco boisterously added his voice to the chorus during every hymn. He wonders if it bothers the other acolytes, or the priests, now. Although they cannot all be great singers, he supposes.

The chorus becomes louder and surrounds him gradually, until Harry realizes they must have finally made it into the inner temple. He’s tempted to open his eyes, but he waits, albeit impatiently, for the right moment.

“Welcome, Harry,” Draco then says and lets go of Harry’s hand. “Thank you for your trust.”

Harry quickly opens his eyes, squinting against the sudden brightness of hundreds of candles and several large torches. They surround a great marble altar, upon which is placed a purple cloth and what looks like a Pensieve. But what surprises him is the fact that the despite the chorus of voices, he sees no one in the room, except Draco.

“Where are all the…” He trails off at the expression on Draco’s face. Trust, Harry remembers.

\-- -- -- --

**31 July 2002**

Harry sat in his favorite armchair off to the side of the room, nursing a pint and rolling the letter between his fingers. It contained a truly massive offer and one he hadn’t had any idea he was even qualified for, let alone being courted for, and it was all he could think about, despite the party that raged around him. What he really wanted was to talk to Draco, but unfortunately, he was nowhere to be found.

“Oi, mate, you do remember it’s supposed to be your birthday, right? You look like someone stole your broomstick or something,” said Ron, as he flopped down onto the ground at Harry’s feet. He reached for Harry’s pint, which Harry let go without protest, and downed the rest of it in a few, rather impressive swallows. “What gives?” he added.

Harry shrugged and shook his head. Though Ron was his best friend, and always would be, somehow it felt wrong to share the news with Ron first. Draco had become such a huge, important part of Harry’s life, that Harry knew he couldn’t talk about the offer until he’d at least had a chance to talk it over with his partner.

Because they were partners now, at long last, even if they still hadn’t said the words. Their relationship had deepened and become more honest--less about physical attraction and sexual needs and more about a real connection. Harry couldn’t imagine what his life would be like now without Draco to share in it: waking up in the morning with Draco’s perpetually cold feet pressed up against the warmth of Harry’s calves, coming home from a long day at work to cuddle up with Draco on the couch and talk about their days, falling into bed with him at night in a flurry of kisses and whispered promises. Harry had really never been happier. Whatever odd thing had cropped up in him and made him see Draco all those years ago had taken hold furiously and refused to let go, and Harry relished it every single day.

Except now, of course, because Draco was petulantly avoiding the party due to the stupid fight they’d had the night before.

Harry frowned then. If Draco was going to continue being a child, then there was really no reason not to share his good news with Ron. Ron deserved to know, after all. He was going to be directly affected too.

“They want me for Minister when Kingsley retires at the end of the year,” he said, quietly.

Ron’s mouth dropped open for a moment, before he started laughing brightly and slapped at Harry’s knee. “Really fucking good one, Harry,” he said. “And I’m for the Royal Ballet next month.”

“I’m being serious, Ron,” Harry replied. He held out the letter explaining his near-unanimous approval by the Ministry electorate, which Ron took and read, his expression slowly changing from amused, to confused, to quiet thoughtfulness in quick succession. “I’m not going to take it,” he added.

“What do you mean, you’re not going to take it?” Ron replied, the thoughtfulness replaced with sudden annoyance.

“I mean, I’m not going to take it. I’m not going in to be vetted before the committee, and I’m not going to take the offer.” Suddenly wishing that he hadn’t allowed Ron to drink the rest of his beer, Harry reached for his wand and quickly Summoned a pair of tumblers and a bottle of Ogden’s from the drinks table in the kitchen. He poured both of them a double shot and then hand the second glass to Ron. “I mean, it would be stupid to take the offer, wouldn’t it? Frankly, I’m surprised I was even considered with the way I’ve been annoying the hell out of them since I was fifteen.” He sighed. “I’m not cut out to run the country,” he added, before raising his glass to Ron in a mockery of a toast and downing the fiery liquid in one smooth swallow.

“But what if you are?” Ron asked.

Harry looked down to see that Ron hadn’t taken his shot and was instead tracing a finger around the rim of the glass, not looking at him. “What?”

“What if you are cut out to run the country?” 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Who are you, and what have you done with Ron Weasley?” he asked, though the joking tone he’d been aiming for didn’t exactly come across.

“I’m being serious, mate. I mean, what if...you’re a leader, Harry. You’ve always been a leader, ever since we were kids,” Ron explained, still carefully keeping his eyes on his glass. “What if this is just the next natural thing?”

Before Harry could answer, Hermione disengaged from the conversation she’d been having across the room and came to sit down on the floor next to Ron. His arm slid immediately around her shoulders, and, despite the annoyance he was feeling, Harry couldn’t help smiling at their easy affection. Although he and Draco were out as a couple, Draco had always insisted on keeping their displays of intimacy behind closed doors--with the obvious exception of their first kiss, of course. “Oh, so you’ve told Ron then?” Hermione asked.

“How did you know!?” Harry asked, incredulous. He hadn’t gotten the letter but three hours earlier.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but her fond exasperation with him was nothing new. “I’m on the Wizengamot, if you recall. My colleagues and I had to approve the short list of candidates before it went to vote, and then we’ll swear you into office after your interview with the committee,” she explained.

“Except that I’m not taking the offer,” Harry replied. “So you won’t be swearing me into anything.”

“Don’t be silly, Harry, of course you’re going to take the offer. You’ll make an excellent Minister for Magic,” she replied, with a dismissive wave of her hand. She took Ron’s drink from his hands and took a sip from it.

“I’ve been twenty-two for less than a day, I’m not even technically a Ministry employee and I have zero political experience,” Harry said dryly. “Were the election committee huffing potions when they came up with my name?”

Ron let out a snort of laughter, which he quickly quelled under Hermione’s imperious look in his direction. “So what if you’re young?” he then asked. “They put Hermione on the Wizengamot when she was bloody eighteen. I’m on track to become Head Auror within the next couple years. Just because we’re young doesn’t mean we’re not valuable. Actually, I’d say we’re plenty fucking valuable. We saved the bloody world!”

Hermione bit down on her lower lip to hide a smile. “Besides,” she then added, “this is exactly the kind of opportunity that you’ve been hoping for since you became a Defender. The chance to make significant policy changes within the Ministry to ensure justice is served throughout the country.” Hermione glanced at Ron, who nodded his agreement. “What better way to do that than as the actual leader of said country?”

Harry couldn’t deny the soundness of her argument; although, he’d seen firsthand that the Ministry was as crooked an entity as it was possible to be. The position of Minister itself attracted powerful, ambitious men, and even Kingsley, a steadfast, loyal and sound-minded man, hadn’t been entirely immune to the corrupt policies that were ingrained deep within the very structure of the organization. Harry didn’t even know if it was possible to make the kind of changes he wanted to make. The Ministry was diseased, and he was no Healer.

“I have to talk to Draco,” Harry said.

“You haven’t told him yet?” Ron asked.

“I’ve barely told _you_ yet,” Harry replied, bristling at the accusation he heard, but was probably exaggerating in his own head. He’d always been a bit overly-sensitive where Draco and Ron were concerned. “But I have to talk to him before I do anything.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed, and she quietly collected the two tumblers. “I haven’t seen him tonight,” she said nonchalantly.

“That’s because he’s not here.” Harry exhaled sharply and then slid down out of the chair to seat himself on the floor next to his friends. “Because we had a fight last night, and he’s still very much a bloody coward who’d rather run away than talk to me about his bloody feelings--and yes,” he said, at Hermione’s look, “I’m well aware of the irony of me wanting to talk to someone about feelings.”

“Is he really not here? I just thought I kept missing him,” said Ron, reaching for a glass again and frowning when Hermione Banished them back to the kitchen.

“Don’t be thick, Ronald, and Harry, I hope you weren’t at him again about the Order,” Hermione said.

“How do you always do that? How do you always know?” Harry asked, throwing up his hands in a useless gesture. “And more importantly, how do you always manage to make it sound like it’s entirely my fault?” Hermione pursed her lips aggressively, until Harry sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “All right, fine, I was at him about the Merlinites again, but only because he told me that he’s thinking of joining up.”

“Oh, Harry, you should really stop calling them that.” Hermione lightly slapped at his shoulder, admonishing. “It’s no wonder that Malfoy’s always storming off because you’re being incredibly insensitive about his beliefs!”

“I’m not!”

“You rather are, mate,” Ron added, with a shrug. “No offense or anything.”

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but then quickly shut it, deflated. He was acting like a child, he knew, and he really did need to stop being so cavalier when it came to Draco’s religion. He honestly had no idea why it bothered him so much. He wasn’t a bigot or intolerant, and he believed quite firmly that a person had a right to his or her beliefs, no matter how silly they might have been. But there was just something about the Order of Avalon that really rubbed him the wrong way, and he couldn’t help but be a bit vocal about it. He’d been to enough of their services to know that it was absolutely not for him, and the idea of potentially losing Draco to the group was more upsetting than he cared to consider.

“I don’t know what the hell my problem is,” Harry admitted. “Every time we go to one of those services, I just sit there and I feel nothing at all, but I look over at him, and he’s bloody enraptured by it, and it just doesn’t make any fucking sense to me! How are we supposed to work out when we’re so fundamentally opposed on this?”

“Well, isn’t that the pair of you in a bloody nutshell,” Ron muttered, to which Harry threw him a dirty look. “S’true, isn’t it? You two together defies logic, but it works somehow. Who’s to say it won’t keep working?”

“And now--” He cut himself off abruptly upon seeing movement at the doorway.

Draco stood there, clutching a present wrapped in deep blue parchment and glancing around the room. He looked younger somehow, like he didn’t quite fit in and knew it, and Harry immediately got to his feet and crossed the room. “Harry, I--”

Harry swallowed whatever Draco was going to say in a searing, breath-stealing kiss. He gripped Draco by the upper arms and, startled, Draco dropped the present before putting his arms around Harry’s waist and tugging him in closer. Harry pulled back to speak just far enough that his lips brushed against Draco’s with every word. “Draco, I love you,” he said fiercely. “No matter what happens, I need you to know that.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he nodded. “I love you,” he replied, a slow grin spreading his face.

It was the most beautiful thing that Harry had ever heard, and in that moment, he felt that whatever they had to face going forward would work out fine.

\-- -- -- --

Harry moves forward and stands before the altar. He places his hands on the smooth marble and looks down into the basin. “So this is what you did when you came up the mountain? I always wondered,” he says, then hums along with the chorus a bit. “It’s not a bad tune actually.”

“But I’m a terrible singer,” Draco replies. He steps up behind Harry and places his hands on Harry’s shoulders. “As I am quite sure you recall.”

The warmth from Draco’s hands on him spreads through his body, and he cannot help his shaky inhale. How long has it been since they’ve been this close to one another? He can inch backward and press his back to Draco’s chest, and then Draco can slide his arms around Harry’s waist and rest his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

“Can they see us?” Harry asks, his voice a low murmur. He knows it’s not exactly the most appropriate moment to be feeling the way he feels--this is a purification ritual, and his thoughts are decidedly impure--but he cannot help himself.

“Enough talk now.” Draco moves away again and Harry allows himself a brief moment to feel bereft before he turns around at the altar. All the blood in his body rushes to his cock when he sees that Draco has removed his acolyte robes. He stands there, completely nude, arms down at his sides and palms up, echoing Harry’s earlier supplicatory pose. His head tips back and he inhales deeply, then exhales through parted lips. “Harry, you stand before the altar of Merlin, a child of He who gives us magic and makes whole our souls,” he then says. His voice takes on a lilting quality, but it is blunt against the melodious chanting that remains surrounding them. “Do you come willingly?”

Harry nearly laughs, but then schools his features to an appropriate expression of solemnity. “I do,” he answers, in a clear voice.

“Do you come without fear?”

A slightly easier question, he supposes. “I do.”

Draco takes a step forward and extends his hands to Harry. His eyes blaze with determination, the color of winter ice. “Do you come with trust in your heart?”

“I do,” Harry replies easily. He wants badly to rake his gaze over Draco’s body, long-denied him and now spread before him like a visual feast, but he holds Draco’s eyes steadfastly. He does trust. Draco will lead him safely through. 

Draco then moves closer, places his hands on Harry’s shoulders and turns him around until he is facing the altar again. “You must let go of the trappings of your earthly self and embrace the magic you were gifted,” he whispers in Harry’s ear before carefully removing Harry from his robes. They pool at Harry’s feet, and he looks down, only to watch as Draco’s fingers begin unbuttoning his Oxford. His breath begins to come in shallow pants, as his heart-rate speeds up. “Divest yourself of the earth and embrace the divine,” Draco adds.

\-- -- -- --

**31 December 2002**

Harry sprawled face-down on the bed he shared with Draco, fingers twisting in the sheets and trying his best not to come. He wanted the night to last, and the longer he held off, the longer he could remain where he felt he belonged--wrapped up in Draco’s body.

“It’s nearing midnight,” Draco murmured against the skin of Harry’s arse, before tracing his tongue between the cheeks again.

“I don’t care, ungh--” Harry let out an undignified noise, as Draco began to circle his tongue around the tight ring of muscle. Draco massaged Harry’s arse cheeks with dextrous fingers and then spread him wide, all the while continuing his assault of Harry’s hole. “Fuuuuuck, Draco!”

“In a while,” Draco said. He slid a finger down and began to stroke Harry’s perineum in time with the thrusts of his tongue, and Harry was certain that he was rapidly and determinedly becoming a pile of mush under Draco’s ministrations. No matter how many times this or something like it had happened over the course of their relationship, Draco never ceased to surprise him with just how well he could manipulate Harry’s body into the throes of pleasure. Draco had a gift, and Harry was the willing and grateful beneficiary of Draco’s benevolence.

“Draco, I want you to fuck me,” Harry then cried out, arching his back and pushing his arse up, trying to get closer, urging Draco onward. “Please, please, I want you!” He begged shamelessly because it didn’t matter what he said or did because Draco would oblige him in this one thing. He would give him this one last thing before everything fell spectacularly to pieces.

Harry didn’t want to think about what was going to happen in the morning, which was why he decided against the large New Year's party that Molly and Arthur were hosting at the Burrow, as well as eschewing both the Ministry Gala and the get-together that Hannah and Neville were jointly throwing in Hogsmeade. He hadn’t wanted to be surrounded by well-wishers and constituents, slapping him on the back and congratulating him for his achievements. He hadn’t even wanted his closest friends and family. He wanted only to be with Draco, and perhaps it was selfish and cowardly and ungracious, but he didn’t care because he was on the verge of once again giving up something he’d always longed for, for the good of those around him. He believed that just for now, just for this brief moment, he was allowed to have one thing for himself.

“Only because you asked so nicely,” Draco said, and Harry could hear the smile in his voice, though they faced away from one another. Harry rolled over and watched with unabashed adoration, as Draco slicked up his cock and then carefully positioned himself at Harry’s entrance. Yet even though the cloudy haze of lust, Harry could see the exact moment when the weight of what was happening between them settled heavy around Draco’s shoulders, followed swiftly and terrifyingly by the moment that Draco swept it all under the Malfoy mask.

“No,” Harry said roughly, before Draco could push inside. “Don’t you dare hide on me, Draco. Don’t you fucking dare!”

“I’m not hiding,” Draco replied. He looked away for a moment and then back again, and Harry saw it again--that terrible, reviled placid mask that Draco put up whenever he was feeling particularly vulnerable. Harry had seen it too many times before, and while it might have helped Malfoy to feel in control of himself, it only made Harry feel angry and reminded him of just how bad things had been before.

Harry sat up, jostling Draco back, and practically fell out of bed in his haste to get away. “Yes, you bloody well are! You’re hiding behind that stupid fucking wall of ice that you seem to think makes you strong and in control, when all it really does is make me feel like you’d rather pretend that nothing’s wrong than have an actual conversation! I thought we loved each other?”

“Of course I love you, Harry. Don’t be absurd,” Draco spat angrily. He sat back on his haunches and folded his arms protectively across his chest, though he kept his eyes conspicuously away from Harry’s gaze.

“Yeah, that’s it, get angry! I’d rather see you spitting insults at me than retreating behind that stupid Malfoy fence!” Harry sat back down on the bed again and tugged at Draco’s arms, pulling them down from where they were wrapped around his body. “Come on, tell me what you’re feeling! Show me what you’re feeling, _Malfoy_!”

Draco inhaled sharply and exhaled in a long rush. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight, Harry. Can we please, please not fight? Not tonight. Not now. I don’t want to...I don’t want this to be how it ends.”

“But it doesn’t have to end at all,” Harry grit out. He must have said it a hundred thousand times since Draco had first told him his plans to join the Avalonian ministry, and though he knew it wasn’t going to make one bit of difference to Draco’s stubbornly set mind, he couldn’t go down without a final fight. It just wasn’t in his nature. He’d once walked into the forest to his own death, he’d thrown himself at the mercy of the court countless times to give former Death Eaters even just the chance at rehabilitation, and he’d fallen in love with the most infuriating, intense and impossible person he had ever met. His life had been a serious of hard choices and a constant push towards what was right.

Harry knew deep within his heart that what was right in this case was that he and Draco should be together forever.

“Harry, please,” Draco repeated, finally looking up to meet Harry’s eyes. “Please don’t ask me to change my mind. I’ve made my decision.”

“It’s a bad decision,” Harry insisted.

“It is _not_ a bad decision. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean that it’s a bad decision,” Draco replied, a hint of petulance in his tone.

Harry bristled. “You’re right, I suppose you would know all about making bad decisions. You’re the bloody fucking expert on making horrible, stupid, bad decisions.” Draco reeled back, as if stung by a Blast-Ended Skrewt, and even though Harry knew he was pushing perhaps just a bit too far, he couldn’t stop now. “Am I wrong?” Harry continued. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Harry, you--” Draco cut himself off with a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and then and began again, “you’re being a child! Which, may I add, is highly unbecoming in the man who is going to be in charge of our country in less than twelve hours.”

“Oh, I’m the one that’s being a child?” Harry asked, voice heavy with sarcasm. “If I recall correctly, the last time you blindly joined up with a group of lunatics, you started a war.” Immediately, Harry shut his mouth and looked away, knowing that he had definitely pushed too far. He didn’t even know why he’d said it--even if it was true, this was hardly the time to be shoving Draco away. It was exactly the opposite of what he wanted.

Draco’s voice was like steel when he spoke again after a long moment of working his jaw and trying to compose himself. He was every inch Malfoy again, even while he remained naked and vulnerable, drawing himself up to a height and piercing Harry with a look that made his insides shiver. “You know, for a person who quite literally came back from the dead to save us, you have a remarkably small-minded attitude towards religion, Potter.” He raised an eyebrow, daring a response from Harry.

Harry sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair and over his face. “This isn’t about your religion, Draco. This isn’t about what you believe or _why_ you believe what you believe or anything like that. I don’t care what you believe. I wouldn’t care if you decided to start worshiping some random tree in the woods!” He reached out for Draco’s hands and tugged him closer, slightly relieved when Draco did allow himself to come forward. “Draco, I just don’t...I don’t want to lose you. You have to know that. I don’t want to lose you to these people that I don’t trust.”

“Why don’t you trust them?”

If only he had a real answer to that question. He’d had several months to consider it, as every conversation they’d had about Draco’s decision to join the Avalonian Order had boiled down to the same thing, but he couldn’t come up with a satisfactory response, except to say that he just had a gut feeling. He might not have believed in the same things that Draco and the rest of the Order of Avalon believed, but he didn’t fault them for wanting to put their faith in the idea of Merlin as some kind of all-powerful god who gave magic to humans throughout the ages. In fact, Harry sometimes thought it might have been nice if he had something like that to believe in too--a welcome escape when life got tough.

He also wondered if perhaps it was just Draco trying to find his place in wizarding society again now that his license was nearing its end. He couldn’t deny that the Avalonian priests and acolytes were welcoming, charismatic and, perhaps what Draco needed most over the years, forgiving, but when he mentioned that fact to Draco, the conversation had abruptly ended with Draco storming out and staying at the Manor for three days straight.

Draco squeezed Harry’s hands then, forcing him to look up and see that Draco’s eyes were wide and searching, determined. He needed an answer, and Harry knew that he owed Draco one that actually made sense. So Harry answered with the only part of the whole fucked-up situation that still made any sense to himself. “Draco, I just don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to be the fucking Minister for Magic without you by my side. I just...I just don’t want to lose you.” Harry squeezed Draco’s hands back, forcing himself not to raise his voice or fall apart. They’d had that fight before, and he didn’t want this one to end the same way. If it was naive to hope that maybe this one last shot would work, Harry didn’t care. At the very least, he had a chance.

“I don’t...I don’t want to lose you either,” Draco whispered.

“And you don’t have to! You can just as easily still follow the Order without actually becoming one of them. Don’t they have spots for laypeople?”

“You know that they do, but you also know that my calling is higher than that of a layperson, and you know these facts because _we’ve already talked about all of this, Harry_.” Draco threw up his hands in a useless gesture and Harry grabbed hold of them again. “Besides the fact that no one is going to be all right with the Minister for Magic shagging a former Death Eater, no matter how rehabilitated he might be.”

“Is that what this is all about? Are you running off to the Order because you’re afraid of a little bad press?” Harry asked, his tone light, as a soft smile came to his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes, however, and when Draco sighed gently, Harry knew that this really was the end of it. The whirlwind thing that had grabbed hold of him and refused to let go was about to walk out of his life. “I don’t care about the press,” he added quietly.

“I love you, Harry.” Draco raised Harry’s hands to his lips and pressed a kiss there, sealing the words.

Harry closed his eyes. “I love you, Draco.”

“I think it’s midnight,” Draco then added.

\-- -- -- --

Harry tries to calm down and breathe deeply, but as Draco finishes slowly stripping off all his clothes, he cannot make himself relax. Draco’s hands skim lightly over his body with each item removed, and his fingers feel just as they did years ago when they were allowed to touch each other this way freely. And when Draco picks up a flannel and dips it into a conjured basin of cool, clean water at his side, Harry exhales shakily. “Are you going to wash me?” he asks.

“You need to be cleansed,” Draco replies, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I can’t do it on my own?” He shivers bodily as Draco brings the flannel down and begins to swipe it slowly over his shoulders.

Draco chuckles lightly. “Let me do this for you, Harry. Trust.”

Harry suddenly wonders who did this for Draco when he made the journey himself, which acolyte stripped him down and washed him clean. The idea of someone else touching Draco this way makes him burn with jealousy, even though he has no right anymore. Draco is no longer his; he has no claim over Draco’s body. But he wants so badly. As Draco’s sure hands track a course over his back, down his arms, over his buttocks and down his legs, Harry wants desperately to turn and capture Draco’s lips with his own, kiss him breathless like they had done so many times before. It would be nothing at all to turn around, to take what he wants.

But he supposes that could be rather the point. He is supposed to purify if he wants to finish the journey, and so purify he will. For the good of his people--not his own selfish desires.

“Turn around, please, Harry,” Draco says. 

But when he turns around, he sees that Draco has his eyes shut tightly. His breath is also shallow, and he’s become aroused. Harry smiles softly because at least he isn’t the only one affected by the ritual. He doesn’t even allow himself to consider the possibility that this happens to Draco with other potentials that he has guided along the mountain path--he knows that only he can make Draco feel this way.

“Draco, look at me,” he says, knowing it might be pushing. But he has always pushed with Draco. Draco has always needed to be pushed.

Draco opens his eyes and his lips part as if to say something, but he cannot seem to find the words. Instead, he steps a bit closer and reaches out with the flannel to begin washing Harry’s chest. His eyes lock on Harry’s, steel meeting emerald, fierce and resolute. It takes every ounce of Harry’s willpower not to step forward and let their bodies meet, no matter that he wants it and clearly Draco does too. He can and will be strong.

Draco drops to his knees, breath ghosting over Harry’s hardened cock, as he washes Harry’s legs. “Draco,” Harry exhales. “Please.”

\-- -- -- --

**30 August 2007**

An urgent tapping on his office door drew Harry out of a particularly sound nap. He hurriedly waved a hand to raise the lights to full brightness again before calling out, “Yes, come in!”

The door opened to admit a sullen-looking teenage girl with pale blue eyes, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, why he let himself be bullied into hiring her as his personal secretary. He’d been so happy with old Mrs. Whatsername, who had always greeted him with a smile and a chocolate muffin until she’d been unceremoniously booted, or retired because she was a thousand years old, or whatever had happened. He was really going to have to start standing up to the MoM youth hiring commission. First thing tomorrow morning, in fact, or perhaps after his 9.30 meeting to approve Iliescu’s temporary replacement as head of the DMAC--or was that at 11.00?

“Mr. Minister,” came the nasty, nasally-tone of Catriona, drawing him from his thoughts once more. “Your 15.15 has been waiting for the last twenty minutes while you were sleep--”

“--please send him in,” Harry quickly interrupted, not wanting to hear her accusatory tone any longer. He was the fucking Minister for Magic, for pity’s sake, and one would think that would earn him at least a hint of respect from his underlings. If he wanted to take a quick cat-nap, he should be allowed to do so without the attitude.

When she swanned out of the office, he quickly reached for his diary to check with whom his 15.15 appointment was and when he spotted the name, it felt like a sucker punch to the gut, stealing his breath and making his mouth drop open in surprise. He was sure he would have remembered calendaring this appointment and would have prepared adequately for it, but instead here he was, caught completely off-guard and suddenly certain that he was going to make an absolute fool of himself.

The door opened again to admit Draco, and Harry hastily stood up. It might have been an illusion because of the voluminous Avalonian acolyte robes he was wearing, but it seemed to Harry that Draco practically floated into the room. He looked older, but of course, he was older, five years older--had it really been five years since he had last seen Draco? He also looked more handsome, serene and calm, as he came in and gracefully took a seat on the chair opposite Harry’s desk. He looked absolutely devastating.

“May the peace of His Grace, Merlin be with you, Minister Potter,” Draco said, as he folded his hands primly in his lap.

“Don’t call me that,” Harry said, as he too sat down. “It’s sounds wrong coming from you.”

Draco’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to smile, so quickly that Harry almost missed it. “I suppose it is a bit odd,” Draco then said.

“I like the beard. It suits you,” Harry added, observing the close-cropped blond whiskers that covered Draco’s chin. They made him look distinguished, and Harry liked it.

Draco did smile then. “Thank you, Harry,” he replied, reaching a hand up to scratch absently at his jawline. “Itches some, though.”

Harry grabbed the edge of his desk with a white-knuckled grip to avoid reaching out and pulling Draco in for a kiss. Just hearing his name from those lips made it feel like no time had passed at all--that they’d never fought, never given each other up for the sake of their careers, never lost one another. Harry took a deep breath in and out, reminding himself that Draco wasn’t his anymore, no matter how much he still wanted the man. No matter that he was right there, smiling happily, easily within Harry’s grasp if he just reached out...

“Draco,” he said instead. “It’s...well, fuck, it’s really good to see you.”

“You as well, Harry,” Draco replied, easily. “It’s been too long.”

Harry let out a helpless little laugh. “And whose fault is that?” he asked, smiling.

“I suppose a bit of both, don’t you think?” Draco’s expression remained faintly amused, but still calm and inscrutable. At the very least, though, Harry was pleased to see that he was open, rather than closed off behind his walls. He looked, well, quite frankly he looked happy and at peace, and Harry supposed that was all he ever really wanted for Draco. “I think we each could have made a bit more effort, if we wanted to do so.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.” Silence fell between them then, awkward and uncomfortable. Harry had so much he wanted to say. He’d been planning the conversation since the day they’d both walked away to move on to bigger and better things. Although, Harry didn’t know if they were really better, now that he’d had time to settle in to ruling wizarding Britain. He liked his job a great deal, and while he hadn’t seen as much reform as he might have wanted and had quite a bit of work left to do, he was making progress towards his goals. “I’ve missed you,” Harry then finally said, looking down at his desktop. Best to start with the truth, he supposed. “I--”

“--Harry, please, let’s don’t do this. It will…” Draco trailed off after his interruption, and a flush came to his face.

“It will, what?”

Draco sighed and looked away. “It will hurt less. We should keep this professional.”

“Oh, so this is a professional visit,” Harry said, a sharpness coming to his tone, after the sting. It was unfair, after all these years, that Draco really did still have the power to hurt him. He was wrong though; things had never just been professional between them, from the moment that Harry had stepped forward and spoken for him at his trial. Even before that, during their school years, it had always been personal between them. And Harry knew that attempting to keep the meeting professional would only hurt more--would only remind of everything that he had lost.

“Yes, Harry, of course it’s a professional visit,” Draco said, straightening his spine and sitting up tall in his chair. “And I suspect you might have an idea of why I’ve been sent.”

Harry did, actually, though he hadn’t thought that the Order would send Draco to deal with him. It seemed rather a low blow on their behalf; although, to be fair, had their positions been reversed, Harry might have done the same thing. They had to know that he was vulnerable where Draco was concerned and would be much more likely to listen and give in. “You’ve got some kind of big celebration coming up, right?” he asked, on a sigh. “Merlin’s Deathday or something?”

“That’s correct,” Draco said, beginning to explain. “Preparations have begun in earnest for the Leave-taking Festival, and we require Ministry cooperation to ensure the safety and security of our flock, as well as, of course, the success of the event itself. But our requests have been continuously blocked and ignored by the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and our request for Auror security forces has been denied.”

Harry was well aware of that. “And you think that you can just go over the department heads and come to me?” he questioned, an appraising look on his face.

Draco’s brow furrowed. “Well, you are the Minister. Where else would you have us go?”

“I trust my team, Draco. If they’ve denied your requests, I’m sure it’s for a perfectly good reason,” Harry answered, with a shrug. “I can’t go around overturning decisions left and right.”

“So you’re saying you had nothing to do with this?” Draco asked, deeply suspicious.

“Are you accusing me of something?”

Draco bit down on his lips, and Harry stared at the even white teeth, pressed into the plump pink lip. He remembered when those lips were his to nibble on. “No,” Draco then said, “I trust you, Harry.”

“So what do you want then?” Harry asked, forcing himself to calm down before he launched himself over the desk and tackled Draco to the floor.

“I’ve been sent today with the express purpose of arranging a meeting between you and the High Priest,” Draco said. “His Holiness feels that if you were to meet with him to learn more about our religion and the festival in particular, you’ll have a better understanding of why it’s important and why we need the Ministry’s cooperation.”

“You couldn’t just bring him with you today?” Harry asked, knowing full well the response he would get.

“You know that His Holiness does not leave Mount Pax,” Draco responded. “He has requested your presence there.”

“You want me to go up the mountain?” Draco nodded. “But I thought the mountain was only for priests and acolytes,” Harry continued, curious.

“Normally, that is true, but Leonatus wishes to make an exception for you, provided you are willing to undergo the necessary ritual to be allowed through to the inner temple,” Draco explained. “I went through it myself before I took my vows.”

“A ritual?” Harry stood up from the desk then and came around to perch on the edge, invading Draco’s personal space a bit. “And just exactly what would this ritual entail?” 

Draco looked up at him, then swallowed hard. “It’s just a simple purification ritual. Nothing that you can’t handle, Harry.”

“And then I would meet with your High Priest, and we could...sort some things out, I suppose?” Harry asked.

“Exactly. He believes that an honest conversation is exactly what the two of you need in order to forge a relationship that will benefit our followers, both as believers and as citizens of this country,” Draco said, and he sounded so utterly fake, that Harry very nearly reached out and throttled him. “So, what do you say?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I’m not going to change my mind about your faith, you know. I don’t believe, and I’m not going to just because your boss wants to have a few words with me.”

Draco sighed and stood up. “No one is asking you to change your beliefs, Harry, I promise. We’re simply asking for the chance to explain. We need your help, just as much as those who do not believe in Merlin’s grace do. It isn’t fair for you to ignor--”

“--don’t do that,” Harry interrupted. He stood up as well, facing Draco head on. Draco was still just that much taller than him, and his lips were directly in Harry’s eyeline. He watched as Draco slid his tongue across them, moistening them and leaving them parted just so. Fuck, it would be nothing at all to lean in. Harry stepped closer, his chest flush against Draco’s, and let his hands hover at Draco’s hips, without touching. They’d been here before, he knew. “You don’t need to manipulate me, Draco.”

“Harry, I…” Draco trailed off again and swallowed hard. “Harry, please.”

“Will you be with me?” Harry asked. He looked up with just his eyes, through his lashes. He knew he was the one manipulating now, but he didn’t care. It had been so long since they had been together, so long since he’d had Draco in his arms, and he wasn’t going to let go without a fight.

“I’ll be with you as a guide. I can...I’ll make sure that you make it through safely.” He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, before carefully removing himself from Harry’s grip and stepping back towards the door. “Thank you, Harry, for your trust.”

Harry shrugged. “You’ve earned it,” he said. “They haven’t. It’s you I’m doing this for.”

“All right.” Draco paused in the door and looked at Harry with an unreadable expression.

Harry looked away and by the time he sat down at his desk, Draco was gone. He reached for the photo of Hermione, Ron and himself that he kept on the desk and held it tightly. His hands shook.

\-- -- -- --

He’s so close. He’s straining with the effort of not coming. Harry gets the feeling that if he were to come in the midst of a religious temple, he would get sent straight to some terrifying hell dimension, regardless of whether or not he actually believes. But he cannot help it. Draco is washing his thighs, and his eyes haven’t left Harry’s face--his beautiful stormy grey eyes, looking at him with lust-blown pupils. Harry wants him more than he has ever wanted anything.

Then, Draco pauses, his hand poised, but shaking above Harry’s leaking cock, and Harry knows what he’s about to do.

“It’s all right, Draco,” he assures him, before letting his eyes fall closed.

Draco begins to wash his cock, and Harry’s knees buckle at the feel of the rough flannel against his sensitive skin. He nearly pitches forward, until his hands find Draco’s shoulders. “Steady, Harry,” Draco says, one hand coming up to grip Harry’s wrist. 

“Okay,” Harry breathes. Draco carefully washes him, stroking gently at first, then firmer, until Harry releases with a loud cry. It seems to last for ages--he can’t hear anything over rushing of blood in his ears, and his whole body trembles with the force of it. He wants to collapse into a heap, he wants to cry, and he definitely doesn’t want to open his eyes for fear that this will all have been a dream.

The flannel comes back to his stomach, as Draco cleans him up again. He then rises from his crouch and crosses behind Harry to pick up the purple cloth from the alter. He drapes it artfully around Harry’s waist and over his shoulder, before finally stopping his cautious movements. He looks Harry directly in the eyes.

“H-Harry,” Draco stammers, but manages to keep from faltering, “please kneel.”

Harry gets to his knees and sits back on his heels, the fabric of the cloth pulling tight against his lap. He rests the back of his hands against his knees, palms up, and takes a deep breath in and out. “I’m ready,” he says.

Draco then presses his fingertips to Harry’s temples. “Remember the steps of your journey. Push them to the front of your mind. Clear your head and let me in,” he murmurs, before beginning to hum. He gets louder and louder until suddenly a bright ball of pale blue light bursts before him.

Harry feels lighter somehow, as he watches his memories float over into the Pensieve on the altar. He turns his head to see that Draco has put his robes back on. Draco extends a hand to Harry to help him up. Together, they step up to the altar, hands still entwined.

“Are you ready to see?” Draco asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

“If you stay with me,” Harry replies significantly.

Draco says nothing at first. He turns his head, and Harry nods. “I’ll stay.”

Harry grins and then plunges into the basin. He never lets go of Draco’s hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or [on Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/81795.html).


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